


In which there's dancing going on.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life is about surviving things, appreciating nature, nurturing kindness & friendship, and dancing"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which there's dancing going on.

She hates the Beautiful People. The Beautiful People are ugly and stupid and shallow and only like her because she knows her Prada. The Beautiful People only like her fiancée because they themselves have proclaimed him as glamorous, ensuing the masses’ backlash after the first Thor movie, and she finds this utterly sacrilegious because he is way above glamorous. Glamorous is shit compared to what he represents and she hates it when people praise him mainly for having been cast as Loki and making smart fashion choices.

And, talking about fashion choices, she fucking loathes her own right now, because just who the fuck can possibly match flats with a Chanel suit complete with cufflinks and a bow and Agent Provocateur stockings? Nobody. So she’s stuck five and a half inches above the ground in Louboutin patent shoes striding along the London streets that are taking her home because she hates the Beautiful People and their posh cars and wants nothing to do with them.

By the time she arrives he’s already called her, concerned by her delayed return. She swallowed the knot in her throat and spilled previously rehearsed lies with a smile on her face, and he believed her because in all this time they’ve been together she’s learned his skill and a couple more things other than how to prepare the traditional English Christmas pudding.

Her feet are pulsing, swollen and a just a few shades short of purple and she can feel her hairline and armpits damp with sweat which she’s never been so grateful for. But, then again, she’s never hated her perfume so much before either. She swings the door open and a tidal wave of disco beats nearly propels her back out. Then there’s this completely washed out voice of an undecidedly post pubescent male singing about being up all night and she wants to cry out her happiness to the world because she’s home. She is where his musical selections blast out from the speakers and he dances around like there’s no reason in this shitty world to be less than joyful, eyes closed, allowing the harmonies to reverberate under his skin. She locks the door behind her, drops her bag on the foyer floor and kicks her shoes off as she advances into the house sensing a subtle scent of food. She swallows her sobs thickly for what seems to be the thousandth time today but lets the silent tears smear her designer mascara all over her designer foundation and illuminator and concealer and powder, ruining her picture perfect face.

He’s in the kitchen, all six feet and two inches of glory jamming to Daft Punk’s latest melodic accomplishment, belting out the lyrics alongside Pharrell, changing all the “lucky” to “loki’d” every single time ( because he’s just her silly little dork, like that ) and chopping various vegetables which he then discards into a large bowl to be mixed and dressed accordingly, to go with the chicken dumplings currently being thoroughly steamed.

He’s not yet realised that she’s in the room and keeps on sharply thrusting his hips to the rhythm, passionately frowning as he sings with vigour. It’s only in the middle of a spin that he notices the young woman looking smaller than she’s ever had before sitting on the polished parquet, her knees brought to her chest, her lithe figure mercilessly shaken by her heavy sobs.

He hurries to her side, mentally kicking his ass because he’s known. He’s known all day long that her laughter earlier today had not been genuine for a liar knows a liar, and pretense is merely another form of lying.


End file.
